Author's Note: The idea here is hopefully something different from my usual approach; the epistolary idea came to me while re-reading Stephen King's Carrie a few weeks ago, and I've tried to make this a little choppier of a narrative than, say, my own In Through The Out Door or even Powers--the story from which this comes, but which you don't need to read (hopefully!) in order to get this one. So in addition to hammering out as solid of a timeline as I could, with regard to Scott's death (that is, assuming he was blown away in 2004 in the Marvel Universe proper), I've also taken some liberties with Scott's origin, while attempting my damndest to keep in line with his death in Avengers: Disassembled (even though I think listing 'spontaneous disintegration' as a COD is stupid). Anyway. The scurrilous among us will note Scott's date of death as the day Avengers #500 was released. We also snuck in a reference to Billy Kaplan, Wiccan from Young Avengers, and his old habit of waiting around Avengers Mansion for the Scarlet Witch. The 'Keg n Cork' does exist; it's a drive-thru in Springfield, Ohio with a delightful leprechaun logo that looks like it came from the University of Notre Dame. One of Scott's two friends was originally going to be named Buzz—a nod toward The Sentry (Robert Reynolds) who in college won the heart of one Lindy Lee from a Flash Thompson export named Buzz. So there's that. But for now, Scott Lang and the future Mrs. Ex-Scott Lang, aged 18, are a couple of oversexed high school juniors. If at any point I've elicited cries of 'character derailment!' or the like, please do chalk it up to some alternate-Scott. Or let me know. We'll fix it faster than you can say House of M.
New York-Presbyterian Hospital
Report of Decease Today's Date:28 July 2004
Name: Scott Edward Harris Lang By: M. Reichner, MD
Address: 890 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan 10021 (AKA Avengers Mansion)
DOB: 12 April 1972
Emergency Room: None Amb #: 181
Treatment Admin: None DOA: Y
Time of Death: 28 July 2004, 10.44 a.m. (approx)
Cause of Death: 'Spontaneous disintegration', acute myocardial infarction, shock, haemorrhage, immolation/TBSA burn 20%
Person identifying deceased: Steven Rogers, 890 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan (aka Avengers Mansion) 10021
Next of kin: Cassandra Lang, 149 Willow St., Brooklyn Heights 11201
Body to be released to: Stark Industries pending funerary arr.
Doctor in attendance: M Reichner, MD
Pathologist: D Finch
Remarks: Additional info of superhuman nature forthcoming from D. Buckley, ME (Columbia University Medical Centre) + H. Pym (Empire State University Biological Sciences Dept.)
From the 28 July 2004 broadcast of CNN's Situation Room:
"At this time, we have no idea what's gone on at Avengers Mansion, except to say that around 10.45 this morning there was a massive explosion on the building's front steps that resulted in at least one death, that of Scott Lang, who our viewers might know as Ant-Man. Lang took over the position from Henry Pym, the renowned entomologist and physicist..."
From the 29 July 2004 broadcast of FoxNews' Hannity & Colmes:
"I think what a lot of us are forgetting is that this Lang—here's a guy that used to be a criminal! He broke into this Pym's house, made off with the-the Ant-Man gear—Pym follows him for some reason, and then next thing you know he's on the Avengers and then, boom, the Fantastic Four. This guy turned it around for himself and he didn't rely on anyone else to do it for him. That's, that's admirable..."
From the November 2004 edition of GQ (cover featuring Scott Lang & Clint Barton):
"We could do worse than to look at Scott Lang and Clint Barton as men of their times. As victims, probably, of an unflinching system that yet gave them another chance. We have Henry Pym, and Tony Stark (who, legend has it, was seen womping Electro in downtown Seattle last week with what smacked of a new Avengers team) to thank for that bit of clemency. For allowing us to be witness to a world where second chances actually mean something, especially in regards to our costumed heroes, who save us from threats we don't even know about. This is a level of sacrifice, of duty, and of purpose which we as reasonable people often overlook. This issue of GQ is dedicated with the utmost respect to Scott Lang and to Clint Barton: two heroes who gave their lives in service to 'we the people'. We honour them. And miss them..."
Letter from Scott Lang to Peggy Rae Blankenship:
Jan 12, 1989
Peggy,
I'm afraid I'm going to have to die tonight. I'm at the Keg and Cork getting liquored up on A&W and Mike and Shi are making fun of me and I just don't think I can take it anymore. Handsome young guy like me doesn't just fall into a handsome young gal like yours lap every day. So when you get this—because your answering machine is clogged full, and because I'm sure your dear old mom is still hell-bent on that restraining order, I hope you'll see fit to pop on down here and give me a hey-you because if you don't I'm half-tempted to run off to Berkeley with Shi just to stick it to you. Wow, that was a really big run-on. At least think about coming down here sometimes; the guys joke but they really want to meet you. Mostly I just want to rub it in Mike's face that you're not imaginary. Also, I love you.
--Scotius
Now:
Scott Lang stood naked in front of his bathroom mirror. One of those door-mounted affairs anchored into the particle board some freaking how by plastic slats and improbably small screws. The glass had thin little strands of steam still covering it at the edges, and cast Scott's body in a gaunt and tanned halo of unfamiliarity.
He was looking at his body, but it was like looking at some other body. It looked all wrong. He used to be Scottie Freaking Lang. Now it seemed a vague shadow. The outline of his body was all wrong. The shoulders seemed higher, more defined. The pecs, which were normally pouty on their own, were stockier, more robust and muscular, and the ribs making his skin furrow did a curving sort of herringbone down his sides, pointing to his crotch. He thought for a moment that his nipples and navel put together looked like a tiny little surprised face. Mr Bill going 'oh no!'
He widened his stance and the muscles covering his thighs stood out. Further down his toes flexed upwards as he balanced. He leaned forward, pressing his nose against the glass, then his forehead, and feeling the coolness of the glass. Sweat was strolling down the back of his neck in leisurely bands.
He sighed.
In a few minutes, he was going to have to go out there and deal with this.
This coming back from the dead shit.
He reached one arm out to the countertop, grasped the briefs, and pulled the arm back. Slid on the damn things. Then trousers, flat-front black things with straight legs and no imagination. The shirt hung on the hanger next to the door, a white and boring affair. The tie was coiled on the counter next to the trousers. In five minutes he was pulling on the jacket and loosening the tie already.
He looked lazy. Hadn't bothered to shave. His hair hung on his head in nettled strands and he didn't care to clear it up.
He sighed again. Pulled the door open and shoved his hands in his pockets and made down the hallway.
Twelve floors down, Susan Storm was waiting with the car. Scott would be down there in no time, and then they'd have to drive to fucking Humboldt's office. To deal with this.
Deposition of Scott Edward Harris Lang, Defendant, and Peggy Rae Lang née Blankenship, Complainant, regarding at-fault divorce proceedings in the city, county, and state of New York.
Begin Transcript:
Humboldt: Now, Mr Lang, I'd like to go over the allegations once more if it's not going to put you in too much of a bind.
Lang: No, go ahead.
Humboldt: One, that you wilfully engaged in behaviours dangerous and detrimental to your daughter, Cassandra Lang, of Brooklyn Heights, with regard to your presence on the Avengers team. Two, that said behaviour was also detrimental to the emotional and physiological well-being of your spouse, Ms Peggy Rae Blankenship. Three, that prior to your inclusion on the Avengers team, you wilfully indulged in criminal acts in regard to the person and property of Henry Pym of Milltown, New Jersey. Four, that those acts received no criminal punitive damages. Five, that you repeatedly expressed intent to act on criminal impulses again in the future. The charge as delivered in the Superior Court of Manhattan on the twelfth day of April, 1992, is of criminal negligence and child endangerment, to which you have pleaded not guilty. In response to the plea bargain entered thereafter and as a preventative measure with regard to Cassandra's well-being, Ms Blankenship filed for divorce. Is the information stated correct, to the best of your knowledge?
Lang: Yes.
Humboldt: Have you anything further to add? Any questions?
Lang: Just one. That charge, child endangerment. Am I to assume that was my wife's doing?
Humboldt: Yes.
Lang: Okay.
Humbolt: Uh.
Lang: What?
Humboldt: Have you...any response to the charges?
Lang: No. They seem ironclad enough. My wife must certainly know what she's talking about, for someone who hates even going into the city.
Humboldt: Let's try to stay on target shall we?
Now:
"Mr Lang? Are we on target?"
He looked up at Humboldt, as bloated and contumely as ever, with a vague and disaffected look. Scott hadn't been looking at his own body an hour ago in the bathroom, and he wasn't even here in this room. He was going through the motions. Like a sad and unwaking dream, it all ran together. No separation.
He ran a hand over his face, stopping to rub his eyes and then going on, stopping against to scratch the skin over his chin..
"Yeah," he said, and waved his finger in a circle. "Yeah, I'm here."
"Right." Humboldt sounded fussy and shifted, irritated, in his chair. The tie around his neck was a horrendous repp of pink and brown and made Scott hate him even more.
Donald Humboldt had been Peggy's lawyer since time began. It was almost the first thing they did on coming to New York. She hired a lawyer to take care of the estate of her late mother, the asthmatic and dying Estelle Blankenship, of East Egg Long Island (formerly of Coral Gables, FL), who even on her deathbed cursed Scott's name to the great Marlboro Country in the sky. And for some reason, Donald "Duck" Humboldt had stayed around. Claimed Peggy could pay him in lutefisk for all he cared—though Scott suspected this was a clever marketing trick he took from Nelson & Murdock in Hell's Kitchen, who legend had it were getting paid in fluke. Stylistically, Humboldt dressed like the overweight and overwrought logical endpoint of the corporate cubical model. Short-sleeve dressed shirt tucked in so as to accentuate the disgustingness of the middle-aged man's greatest foe, the spare tire. Ties always loose, collars always flat against a flabby chest and wide, sagging shoulders. Maybe a comb-over (Scott suspected Humboldt had been bald as far back as 6th grade and simply used a dead raccoon for cover). And godawfulass striped ties from Dilbert's nightmares.
Scott's lips quivered and made a bare little scowl.
Jesus Christ on a crutch he hated Don Humboldt.
Mostly because the fat little shit was the black hole into which Scott Lang's money had gone.
But all the records had gone to Humboldt after the divorce, and, Scott had to guess, after the little adventure at the Mansion. Peggy had inherited the windfalls, and the insurance payout. She was set for life after that, and it was all because Scott got blown to hell by Jack of Hearts.
He let out a scoff through his nostrils. Irony.
How long ago was that?
Reed Richards had been mum on the subject, probably because
(he doesn't want you to know!)
he didn't want to shock Scott's system. The whole "lo, what things you have missed!" speech.
Scott's daughter was the one with the heart condition, but Scott wondered if he could keel over from a happy little infarction some day.
'Course, he hadn't gotten around to reading his own death certificate.
That came next.
"Now," Humboldt said as he leant over the coffee table separating the fatso lawyer from Sue Storm and Scott himself. "We have a lot to go over, but I promise I'll only take about a half hour of your life, Scott."
(oh by all means take all you want, you slobbering piece of)
"That's fine," he said. And then: "Give it to me in three sentences or less."
"Okay." Humboldt's lips pursed and his face looked red. Scott wondered if it had always been that way. "The estate taxes remain unchanged, essentially; you're lucky to have been paid off at the time of, uh, your. Uh. Passing."
Scott angled an eyebrow. That was something at least.
Humboldt thumbed through the stack of papers, his phalange-sausages curling in and out and sticking to the pages with his gross saliva plastered across Scott's will. Across the divorce settlement. The insurance claims from Stark Enterprises and Fantastic Four, Inc.
"Now," Humboldt said and held the Fantastic Four, Inc. end of life payout sheet an inch from his bird-nose. "These all check-out. Matter of fact, it all checks out. I've never seen anything like it, though I guess that's to be expected. There's just one thing I want to ask."
"Yeah?"
Humboldt leaned forward and stuck his hands between his fat legs, touching fingertips to fingertips in a downturned prayer type look. Scott wondered if Humboldt's head was going to pop off from the shirt, severely squeezing the bloated whale carcass beneath and casting white dots of numbness on a field of red skin.
"What was it like?"
"What?" Scott's mouth twisted into a scowl. "What was what like?"
"You know. Coming back."
Scott rolled his eyes and stood. Sue followed him and he turned back half and said, "I want Matt Murdock."
Sue turned promptly and gathered the files—Scott's life—from the overlapping mess on Humboldt's coffee table. "Be expecting that call, Donald," she said, and turned to leave.
Scott was holding the door for her.
Letter from Peggy Rae Blankenship to Scott Lang:
January 21 '89
Scottie,
Last night was great, and I want to thank you for showing a gal a good time. I know this sounds like Grease or Carrie or something (maybe not Carrie since there was def no blood involved!), but I really appreciated it. I'm glad we did it and that you were able to keep up. Ha ha ha. Don't be a stranger anymore, okay? Mom's bark is a lot worse than her bite.
-Peg
Letter from Scott Lang to Peggy Rae Blankenship:
Jan 22 1989
Peggius,
As you can see, the Latin tutor's working out really well. You'd like him, maybe I could fix you two up? (hah!) Anyway, I got your last letter; Shi ran me down on my way out of the computer lab (the Macintosh SE is one slick bitch; I might dump you & run away with one) and slapped it in my hand. I gotta ask: you asking me to come around more, is that the closest I'm gonna get to an 'I love you, Scott'? Anyway, you get your way: catch you after school? Also, I was driving to school this morning and found your bra. It was in the glove box for some reason. You were looking for it, and I didn't want to you to think I was holding out on you just so I could see the goods out bouncing during gym. That was a plus though. Also, I love you.
--Scotius
Then:
Humboldt's office was done up in dark shades of green and brown. The wainscoting ran all the way around, in divided slats the width of Peggy's zippo. The walls were deep green, and went pretty good with the banker's lamp on Humboldt's desk, the craned-neck kind with a beaded pull-string and bulb in the shape of a squat Popsicle. The whole effect cast a rotund glare around Humboldt's gut. His tie hung loose at his neck and his moustache ruffled every time he spoke. His eyes were bulgy and on the bottom supported by faded black sacs. He looked deathly.
His throat rumbled as he spoke.
"Peggy?"
"Huh?"
"I asked if you were alright."
Blake was there with her, sitting the red leather chairs angled in front of Humboldt's desk. His hand over hers, his fingers grasping hers tightly. It was a dog and pony show, and she knew it, but it made her feel a little better.
Certainly better than Scott ever did.
'Course, none of that mattered now.
Scott was gone.
That's why they were here.
"Yeah," Peggy said and touched a hand to her forehead. "Just give me a minute."
Blake looked at her. Italian immigrant by trade, third or fourth generation if Peggy remembered correctly. One of New York's Finest. And the uniform, and the way he looked in it?
Oh baby...
It took about twenty seconds of coercing, and that was ever so gentle, to get her out on a date with him.
He squeezed her hand again and she sighed and looked back at Humboldt.
"Okay," she said.
Humboldt's head made a slight waver from side to side as he spoke, testing the waters and not wanting to overstep himself. "Is there anything else you'd want to add to the service? Specific requests, a guest list?"
"Uh."
It was all in order. That wasn't the problem.
Service at Avengers Mansion, or what was left of it, for Scott. No burial.
Stark had said there was nothing left. Not even a body and so no need for burial. As if things were that cut and dry.
So it was all memorialism.
And Peggy didn't know why that bothered her.
"No," she said at last.
"Will you be speaking?" Humboldt said.
"Should I?"
Humboldt's eyes flashed and his bushy eyebrows went up in unison. "Well I suppose, but that's really your call. Depends on how comfortable you'd be."
"I don't know," she said and looked away and touched the hand to her chin. Her head itched and she scratched it, and let out a quiet snort. Couldn't even have a good pensive moment.
Blake was leaning in to her and rasping in her ear. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, babe."
"He's right," Humboldt said. "Mister Stark and I have been in contact. Everything's going to be fine."
Time passed in a blank and unwaking way for Peggy Burdick. The days ran together after Scott's death—or blowing-away—and it hit its lowest point when she found herself on the couch watching DVRs of Maury.
She wiped the Cheetos off her chest and stood up and said, "Oh God." The remote slipped from her hands and it was then that she just. Kind of. Collapsed.
Blake found her on the floor there, huddled into herself and crying. Whimpering into her arms and letting out an indistinct moan every so often that sounded, or so Blake Burdick thought, like 'Scott'.
The memorial service for Scott had gone...well, it had gone.
Peggy went through it in a perpetual numbness. Blake was on one side of her the whole time, Cassie was on the other. Some no-account working for New York Post got in Peggy's face and asked her what she thought of the whole "super-hero thing" now that her husband was dead, and Blake broke the guy's nose. Cassie stared after the poor bastard with practised indifference, and let herself hate Blake a little more.
So as memorials for fallen Avengers go—particularly for this one, who as it turned out had been blown away by something Stark and Reed Richards called a "psychic avatar" of the Scarlet Witch's doing—the service went pretty okay for Peggy Burdick. No one had asked her just who she thought she was, or give Blake hell for being the replacement, or patted Cassie's shoulder and told her to hang in there.
It hadn't even rained.
Everyone had parted ways at the Mansion gates. Blake had gone to get the car and pull it around. Peggy and Cassie stayed to talk to Richards and Stark, and out of the corner of her eye, Peggy noticed Cassie noticing a boy across the street. Peggy paced around and Stark compensated, so she could look over his shoulder. Cassie, leaning against a lightpost with her hands running up and down her purse nervously, stealing glances every few minutes at the boy on the stone bench across the street.
The boy with black hair, a wisp of it swooped in front of a black eye and a bloody nose, with a white shirt and cord pants, one leg crossed over the other. Like he was waiting for something.
Blake tore around the corner in Peggy's Charger—she had demanded Blake didn't drive the cruiser; last thing they needed was to be seen leaving Avengers Mansion in the backseat with Manhattan Bob.
Peggy slid in the front seat. Cassie slunk into the back, and as they drove away she was craning out the back window, looking at the boy on the stone bench.
Peggy relaxed in her seat and ran her hands through her hair, short and blonde and out of the way and gelled up to infinity. The muscles under her eyebrows tensed and made the dark strips on the skin angle down. She was making an angry face to hide the insecurity.
"Peg, you okay?" Blake asked.
"Yeah," she said and looked out the window. The muscles smoothed out and the eyes narrowed, looking out at the street with some dark wonder.
She hated those Avengers.
She wanted them to know it, too.
They turned onto 42nd street and it started. Peggy's eyes welled up and there was burning in her nose. Then she started crying, and buried her head in her hands.
Oh, Scott...
From The Desk of Daniel Buckley, ME
Columbia University Medical Centre:
Aug 12 2004
"Mr Stark,
I wanted to thank you for extending me an invitation to yesterday's memorial service for Scott Lang at Avengers Mansion. It was both moving and memorable, and you have every assurance that Mr Lang's remains were treated with the utmost respect while under autopsy. The report of decease is attached for your convenience, as is a transcript of our conversation of Aug 4 (also appended), drawn up by Franklin Nelson of Nelson & Murdock LLC and constituting a verbal contract. This was done strictly for legal purposes and to avoid any entanglement either with the United Nations or the federal government. Presently Mr Lang's remains are on their way to your Coney Island facility, in agreement with our arrangement and conversation of Aug 4 (see appended). My sympathies, once more, on the loss of your team-mate. If I may be of any further assistance, do call me directly or let the Departmental secretary know.
Best,
Dan"
From the Desk of Tony Stark:
Aug 14, 04
"Dan, I got your letter—thank you for it, it was a wonderful reminder of why we're in this business in the first place, and a great memorial to our friend Scott. His body arrived here yesterday; please be assured that we have taken every precaution and that he will most definitely rest in peace. Thank you for your help, and please thank Franklin Nelson for me as well. He's a credit to Columbia.
Best,
Tony"
Cassie Lang's Journal
May 12th '03
"Mom's being stupid again. I know she thinks about Dad, I just know it. She thinks about him every night, I swear, I can see it in her eyes. I guess I don't really get the whole picture, but I guess maybe sometimes I do. I dunno. I mean, I was at the Mansion last week (Mr Stark said hi to me!) with Dad, and I know he doesn't mention mom either, but I think he misses her too. I hope so. My birthday was last week and Blake—and that's all I'm gonna call him b/c mom can take this 'he's your dad' stuff and shove it—got me a freakkin EZ bake oven. What is that?! Like, maybe if he sat down and actually tried to talk to me, then maybe I'd care. But it just looks really REALLY lazy what he's doing. I know he's crazy about mom, but maybe I just wish he'd be crazy about me. I mean, I'm part of this too. Maybe I just wish mom'd mention dad once in awhile. I know she misses him. I just wish she'd stop trying to show me that she doesn't (miss him that is). More tomorrow.
PS: OMG when Mom came to pick me up from the Mansion last week there was this really cute boy on a stone bench across the street. We sort of smiled at each other but he looked real sad. On my way home tomorrow maybe I'll try and talk to him.
–Cass"
Continued...